After he summoned us, we found our spiritual warrior hero sitting cross-legged, bare chested and alone inside his dark teepee. He was preparing his mind for a ceremony, again. He was about 40, thin, nice to look at, and—as seems necessary to mention—very white. You see, we had been here before. Our hero tried so hard that it not only gave him headaches, but made him deaf to the spirit world he was constantly, pathetically trying to reach. Unbeknownst to him, we had been reached, and after months of attending his sweat lodge act, we’d grown bored. We consider ourselves above obvious signs and could not be blamed, thereafter, for resorting to mischief or mockery.
Also, we knew too much information about White Water on account of his prayers and frequent summons and had seen him for the poser he was, although so many people are posers these days that it’s getting hard to distinguish between them. We knew, for example, that according to 23 and Me, White Water didn’t have even a trace of indigenous blood, not even Cherokee, not even if you went back four generations. We knew, for example, that our hero had received his Indian name following the successful completion of a 6-day sweat lodge training course, for which he had received a certificate, on which the name was written and which he’d taken for real.
As previously mentioned, White Water was easy on the eyes, perfectly proportioned, with a jaw that jutted like a horse’s mouth. Inside the dark lodge, his long blond braids hung behind his ears. He wore khaki-colored harem pants, the most comfortable attire, he had found, for a sweat.
Montana’s icy spring wind swayed the door flap of the lodge. Inside, it smelled like burnt sage and the musty carpet that covered the dirt floor. With his right hand, White Water fondled the heron’s beak necklace that rested atop the fine brown swirls of his chest hair. He pushed away thoughts of his loneliness, which was like a moth-eaten shawl that clung to him. White Water believed his specialness made him lonely, when, in fact, it was his belief in his specialness that scared most people away. No matter. He was planning a trip to Burning Man that summer to find his people.
White Water brought his palms together and said a prayer. We had heard it before: “Creator, please protect this lodge. May we be healed. Aho.” Then he dropped his namaste hands, rose to his knees to appear regal, and called to his apprentice, “Let the light in.”
White Water’s apprentice opened the flap and then made a sweeping gesture with his hands as if to energetically introduce his elder. The apprentice, a 21-year-old surfer from California who moved to Montana to become a fly-fishing guide, had been crouching just outside the door, waiting with the clients. Because he emulated everything White Water did, the apprentice also wore harem pants and no shirt. He had noticed his elder’s ability to snag chicks with the sweat lodge act, and the apprentice harbored fantasies of one day becoming TikTok famous. The apprentice believed he was fated to find White Water’s sweat lodge and that this place would play into his future TikTok fame. He wasn’t sure if fame or snagging or spirituality would heal his primal wounds, but he had gathered from social media that he badly needed healing. He sensed he should explore his feminine side, thereby balancing his inner masculine and feminine. The apprentice was still learning and so he let White Water do most of the talking. When he did speak, he said things like, “Cool bro,” or “sounds epic, dude.”
Outside the teepee, White Water rose and regarded his congregants. Our hero closed his eyes and nodded gravely at the four clients assembled at the picnic table nearby. They were women, and they wore varying degrees of sacred spirituality fashion. He noticed the model from LA first because she beamed at him, and he felt a twinge in his groin. She had messaged the Facebook page for his business—White Water Healing Institute—saying she’d heard about some guy who did sweats in the valley and was he the one? That was three months ago, and she still came every Sunday. She wore so much rose quartz jewelry on her wrists that he thought they looked heavy, especially for someone so wraith-like. He had not yet slept with her. It was important to develop better boundaries with clients. If it happened that he slept with a client, he believed it must be part of their mutual healing journey, but the problem was he felt ugly about asking women to pay him the $100 cash fee per sweat after he’d slept with them.
Never mind the model, he thought to himself. Focus on reading the energy field.
White Water had been hoping for a fuller lodge this round, especially since he owed his ex-wife child support, but, as they say, love the ones you’re with. He directed his smiling nod to his older client, a woman in her 60s who described herself as spiritually promiscuous. He had known her since childhood because she was good friends with his mother. She had given him his first sound bath and his first tarot reading. She had been the first person to explain to him that there was something other than Christian, something other than following Jesus.
In fact, it was his mother and her retired friends like this woman who encouraged his spiritual awakening following his divorce at 32 and they had helped him find the canvas teepee online. They were his most reliable clients and they made him feel confident about his actions. He saw his mother’s friend —whom he called Auntie—had brought two new women with her to the afternoon’s ceremony, and they huddled together with their jugs of water. They looked to be about 30 and unsure of what they were doing there, although he thought he detected a hint of mockery in the expression of the plumper one. She wore sweatpants, not a loose-fitting tunic like the older woman or the artful sarong the model wore. She’ll be uncomfortable later, he thought.
He embraced Auntie, and she kissed both of his cheeks.
“You couldn’t lend her a tunic?” he whispered into her ear, referring to the plump woman. Indeed, it was hard to believe that there was anyone left in Montana without a ceremonial tunic. Auntie smelled like Bath and Body Works.
“I tried,” she said. “That’s what she wants to wear.”
White Water shrugged, but we’d been aware of the plump woman for some time, and we knew her stubbornness and bitterness had no end. She was a troublemaker. Even though she needed to sweat worse than anyone, she was likely to hate on every part of the ceremony, even if it healed her, and we were sure she’d make fun of it no matter what afterward. We would have warned White Water if he could have sensed us.
The plump one’s friend was thinner, more doe-like, and seemed disappointed. She had already fallen in limerence with another White Guy With a Sweat Lodge who held his ceremonies infrequently outside of Billings. She regarded White Water as less serious than her preferred facilitator.
The energy wasn’t too good with the new women, but White Water believed he could handle it.
“Aho,” he said. “Aho. Welcome. Aho. Aho. Aho.”
***
After he welcomed the clients, White Water crawled into his lodge. His place was at the back, directly across from the entrance, and the hottest spot inside. He sat cross-legged, elongating his spine and arranging his feet gracefully in front of him. The apprentice brought in a jar of herbs, a bucket of water and the giant gourd White Water used to pour water on the rocks. Although he loved the smell of the herbal mixture used in the sweat lodge, the apprentice knew the herbs were so sacred that he couldn’t ask their names. Instead, one day White Water would deem him worthy of the knowledge and then, finally, teach him. The apprentice crawled back to the entrance and held the flap open. He gestured toward the clients, as if rolling out a red carpet, inviting them to enter the lodge. The apprentice knew he didn’t even have to talk to the women. He knew that if he just acted spiritual and silent it would impress them. He was in between snags at the moment and hoping to connect with the model. Although he wanted it to happen naturally, he had begun rehearsing strategies he could try and scenarios that might pan out later. He could look at her often enough that their eyes were bound to meet or silently offer her a drink from his jug of spring water.
The clients shuffled in on their hands and knees. Of course, the model came in first and crawled around toward the back to sit near White Water. In truth, she didn’t care about modeling but had been pleased that the gig allowed her to be seen so much and so often. Of all the clothing she’d worn in photo shoots, she preferred the wedding dresses. She slid her knees along the carpet with such determination that she forgot about her purple tie-dyed sarong. It had been knotted around her neck, but suddenly caught under her knees.
When he heard the sound of the rip, White Water opened his eyes to a squint, enough to see the sarong come undone from the woman’s neck and reveal the skimpy white tank top she wore underneath. As she struggled to free the cloth from under her knees, one of her breasts tumbled from the tank top. White Water looked at it long enough to wonder if it was surgically altered, especially since her breasts seemed to be the only fleshy part of her. Although, he thought to himself, he wouldn’t know for sure unless he felt them. He understood how badly the model wanted to be seen, and he wanted to help her. Of course, we knew the truth about her knockers, but we thought it imprudent to reveal.
“Oh my GOD!” the model said, stopping her forward motion to corral her breast. “I’m so sorry.”
White Water forced his eyes shut. He brought his hands to prayer.
Clear your mind of impure thoughts, he told himself. Creator, help me heal this woman. Help this woman be seen.
He listened as the rest of the women entered the lodge without incident. He heard the apprentice pull the flap over the door and knew he was checking it to make sure no light would be let in. When White Water could hear no more whispering, no more rustling or situating he thought: Now. The time is now.
“Aho,” he said. “Welcome to the lodge my relatives. Aho. Aho. Aho.”
White Water brought his prayer hands to his lips before dropping them into his lap.
“I’d like to begin with a land acknowledgement,” he said. “We are holding this sacred sweat lodge ceremony, handed down to me by the elders of the Sioux tribe, on the traditional homeland of the Tukudeka, known in English as the Northern Shoshone, and the Apsaalooke, known in English as the Crow.”
The plump woman cleared her throat. The smaller woman sitting next to her picked that moment to re-arrange her crossed legs. White Water ignored them and continued for he knew that many organizations now had land acknowledgements on their websites.
“As you probably know, sweats are ancient spiritual healing ceremonies held all over the world,” he said. “I will explain what is about to happen so that you have an idea what to expect in this ceremony.”
White Water pointed into the dark pit in the middle of the teepee. “In a few moments, my apprentice will begin to transfer the rocks from the fire to the hearth using a metal rake. We believe the rocks have spirits and that they are alive so we must treat them with respect.”
Like many spirituality appropriation practitioners, White Water got a few things right. However, he messed up many important details. These oversights annoyed us, and White Water should have known better. Spirits always get the last laugh.
“Once the rocks come in, I will pour water on them to make steam,” White Water explained. “It will get uncomfortably hot in here. I encourage you to cover your face with your towel if the steam gets too hot. If you absolutely must leave, crawl toward the entrance in a controlled manner. It’s important that it remain dark inside the lodge so that the spirits we will be calling in feel welcome. At the end of each round, we will let you outside to cool down and drink water. Any questions?”
The plump woman who had rudely cleared her throat during the land acknowledgement had her hand raised. He nodded at her. She was starting her mischief, and we had to admit we couldn’t wait for it. White Water should have known not to use his spiritual power to summon an audience.
“So, what do you prefer to be called?” she asked. “Do we call you medicine man or shaman or just dude with a sweat lodge?”
Auntie elbowed the plump woman, but she threw up her hands and said, “What? It’s just a question.”
In fact, White Water had deliberated over this question himself. Medicine Man had never really lost its appeal, while Shaman had become a wildly sexy moniker. You could charge a lot more if you called yourself a Shaman. Gurus, though, they weren’t cool anymore. Too many creepy ones made the news. He decided to go with humility.
“It’s up to you what you call me,” he said. “I don’t believe I have the right to give myself any of those names.”
“So, you’re like whatever I want you to be?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Make me whatever you need me to be.”
**
The rocks glowed inside the lodge and cracked against each other as the apprentice shoveled them into the hole in the ground. White Water still sat cross-legged, looking down into the rock pit and imagining his face gleaming in the darkness. He saw himself as intense as any ancient healer. When the rocks had all come inside, the apprentice closed the flap of the lodge carefully.
White Water took a deep, audible breath.
“Now you may offer your prayers,” he said.
Prayers are private matters and so we’re keeping the women’s hopes and dreams to ourselves, but you can imagine they each wanted to feel a form of relief, a rebuttal of shame they believed was only possible in non-white, non-Western, non-patriarchal forms of worship.
As he listened to their prayers, White Water focused his attention and tried to empty himself. He tried to be the portal to the divine he knew he could be. It wasn’t arrogance; he believed anyone could be a Shaman or a Medicine Man. It was just that he had developed his special talents. He had committed himself to our path.
“Thank you for your prayers,” he said. “Aho.”
Then White Water took the giant gourd from the bucket of water next to him. In hindsight, he would know: He should not have poured so much water. But in the moment, in the dark dank of the lodge, he dipped the ladle and did not consider how full he filled it. It’s possible some of us helped the ladle down into the bucket, but how can you blame us when White Water was the one who wasn’t paying attention?
He dumped the gourd of water on the rocks. He knew immediately from the sound of the water bubbling and hissing as it pooled that there would be a great deal of steam. He had made the lodge very hot.
Hiiiisssssss went the rocks.
They were not amused.
Steam began to envelope the lodge, choking White Water. The cloud threatened to burn his nostrils and throat. He covered his face with his forearm. For a few moments, he held his breath. Some of us felt bad for him and nudged him to use his voice.
He opened his eyes in the dark lodge but saw only the steam.
“Use my voice?” he asked.
Finally, he got it.
That’s when White Water began to sing. Once, in a sweat lodge on the reservation where he’d taught history for a few years, he’d heard an old man say that singing was the way through the steam. He chose the Spirit Bear Song. Or the song he’d learned from YouTube that was called Spirit Bear Song. White Water sang. He used his clear, beautiful voice and sang, trying to mimic words sung in a language he did not and would never understand.
He sang. He didn’t hear or feel the sighs around him. He didn’t see or feel the women crouching under their towels, the two new women on either side of the spiritually promiscuous woman, Auntie. He did not see or feel how the older, more experienced woman nestled them beside her, holding out her towel with her forearm, and bearing the brunt of the steam with her body, which was like a great shield. If he had, he might have been ashamed of how Auntie covered for him, how her faith in him never wavered.
The lodge was dark and so White Water didn’t see or feel when Auntie passed out. In fact, passing out in the sweat lodge was a calm thing. One moment she could lift her head and the next she could not, her body became a lead sinker on the end of a fishing line. The woman’s younger companions noticed her leaning on them for support and then how she surrendered her full weight. The thinner woman on the left tried to push away the unbearable weight, but then Auntie began to fall to the opposite side, onto the plump woman. Although White Water didn’t see Auntie slump, he heard the gasp and then the scream of the plump woman.
The next thing he knew light was pouring through the door flap because the model had lunged for a way out as soon as she heard the scream. The apprentice seized his opportunity, creeping out of the lodge to check on the model’s health, safety, well-being, and relationship status.
“Someone call 9-1-1!” yelled the plump woman, who was trying to drag her inert friend toward the door. The thinner woman was sitting in the dirt, trying to pull Auntie out of the flap by the legs as the cool outside air streamed into the lodge.
The steam was escaping. The rocks stopped hissing.
Alas, our spiritual warrior hero wasn’t paying attention. Or, rather, he couldn’t pay attention in the way a so-called normal person might.
To White Water, these events seemed to transpire in slow motion. He was in a trance—no—it must have been a vision.
He found himself suddenly in the throes of a vision!
His first vision, in fact. There was nothing he could do to help the women now. He knew not to fight it or resist. All he could do was surrender to the vision. We weren’t sure which one of us had given him this vision, but had White Water listened more carefully he might have learned that sometimes one of our darker representatives appears first, showing up as something desirable, something irresistible. Something manipulative and terrible.
White Water closed his eyes.
Then she came to him bathed in light: a young woman not unlike the model but somehow different, wearing turquoise instead of crystal jewelry and buckskin instead of a sarong. She looked a bit like that unfortunate captive white woman in Dances With Wolves. She beckoned him with her finger. She crawled toward him and reached for his khaki harem pants. He’d heard stories about bad spirits coming first, sometimes, in vision quests, but he also believed that if the spirit world came calling, you should surrender. So that’s what he did.
Surrender, he told himself. Just surrender.
